Forget Me Not
by Boann
Summary: Even in the toughest of times, the Tracy family remain united and strong. But when a rescue goes terribly wrong and the youngest Tracy is lost, how will any of them survive The Hood's deadliest game yet? Movie-verse.
1. Prologue

**Hello again to you all!**

**This story has been 'in production', if you will, since this time last year. During my recent travels I wrote occassionally but never committed to publishing it for fear I couldn't complete it. But now I am back, dug out all the bits and pieces and put them together, and it is finally ready! I hope you enjoy and as always I treasure your reviews and constructive criticism.**

**love Boann xx**

**Prologue**

Pain. That's what he noticed first. A white, hot pain consuming his entire body. He felt like he was lying in an oven, slowing roasting over a fire. The flames seared every inch of him. But he did not smell burning flesh. The scent currently assaulting his senses was something stronger. Antiseptic, he realised. The familiar smell was one he associated with many pain-filled memories, though for some reason he could not remember them. He feared this time would be no exception.

_Where am I? _

He took a deep breath, knowing that oxygen would help him in his quest to achieve consciousness. He choked in the process. Something was in his mouth. He weakly bit down to try and dislodge it, but it didn't move. Whatever it was, it was also down his throat. With this realization, he gagged. The object didn't dislodge, but it did shift, setting his survival instincts back into action. He choked and gagged, unable to breathe. A small whimper escaped him as his weak body tensed with stress.

A cool hand rested lightly on his forehead, pushing his hair back. With it, he became aware of the rest of his body. His fingers were curling around some thin material draped over him. His back muscles cramped. His left arm burned. His chest felt like it was being squeezed by a searing hot vice. He tried to focus on the cool hand. The knowledge that he was not alone inspired him to open his eyes, intent on seeing who was standing above him. The images he saw were too bleary for him to make out a face. Whoever it was standing above him was wearing white.

The voice he heard was that of a woman; kind and soft. "Calm down, sweetheart. It's all right."

"I can't breathe!" he tried to tell her, but all that came out was another choked whimper.

The woman stroked his forehead again. Another figure was hovering at the end of the bed.

_Bed? Why am I in a bed?_ He thought. _Where am I?_

His eyes darted around to try and determine the answer to that question, but the blurred white shapes were unrecognisable.

The woman above him continued to talk to him. Her voice, however alien, was comforting. "The tube is helping you breathe, sweetheart. Just relax."

He really didn't see how that was possible. He didn't know where he was or who he was with. He didn't know why everything hurt and couldn't remember what had happened before now. He couldn't even remember his own name.

With this final realisation, something wet slid down his cheek. He recognised the sensation as that of tears running out of the corners of his eyes. The cool hand brushed them away.

"It's okay, son," said a new, deep voice. A man now stood over his right side. Although the image was still blurry, he could make out the man's brown hair. "You're safe here. We're taking good care of you."

The man bent closer to him and a light suddenly consumed his vision. Instinctively he clamped his eyes shut, but the man's hand was above his head, gently holding his eyelid open. "It's okay," the man said, obviously sensing his distress. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Finally the light disappeared. Something cold being placed on his chest, first on his right, then his left, brought new, frightening discomfort. All the while the woman stroked his cheek and gently held his hand.

The man turned to the figure hovering at the end of the bed. He murmured, "Breathing still sounds laboured, so we'll leave him on the vent. Give him two mils of midazolam and keep an eye on his blood pressure."

The person at the end of the bed was now next to him, out of eyeshot.

The woman's voice reappeared, sounding a little strained. "What's happening, John?"

"It's just a sedative, Mary," the man replied. "The best thing he can do right now is rest."

No sooner had he heard the word 'sedative', he began to feel dizzy. His muscles loosened and his throat no longer protested. As he gratefully sank into oblivion, he heard a new voice in the distance. The voice cried one word.

"Alan!"


	2. Lost

**Chapter 1**

Scott ignored protocol. It was ironic considering he was a dedicated enforcer of it. Protocol kept things organised. Protocol prevented accidents and mistakes. Protocol helped keep everyone safe.

Well, to hell with protocol! It hadn't saved them this time and Scott sure as hell wasn't respecting it now. He marched, still dressed in his dirt-caked uniform, into his father's office. Jeff was exactly where Scott imagined he would be, but the sight still broke his heart.

The older man was sitting hunched at his desk with his head in his hands, staring blankly at a photo on his desk. The photo was of all of them. It had been taken many years ago now, back when Jeff had just bought a new car. The red convertible had been a big hit with his sons, and so it was the ideal setting for a picture. Scott tried not to look at the smiling faces within the stirling silver frame. His jaw locked as he approached his father and the speech he had prepared caught in his throat. Despite his attempts to dislodge the lump in his throat, he could not offer reassurance. He could not summon the words to rouse his father, nor offer him strength. The only thing he could manage was one strangled word.

"Dad."

Jeff offered no acknowledgement. His eyes were bloodshot and empty. The lump in Scott's throat dropped to his heart. Shuffling into the room, he almost winced at the rush of despair and misery that assaulted him. The room, it seemed, was thick with it. It suffocated the happy memories and caused Scott to choke as if he were inhaling a poisonous fume. Pushing aside the quartz crystal paperweight that sat on the desk, reached across and took his father's shaking hands in his. Only then did Jeff look up.

A pained expression crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced with one of stone.

"What is Thunderbird 2's ETA?" Jeff asked, looking away towards the computers.

"Fifteen minutes," Scott swallowed. "They'll be home soon."

Jeff stared silently at the computer monitor, shoulders sagging in defeat and his bottom lip quavering.

It was enough to send Scott over the edge. He'd planned to stay strong, to be the rock he had been after the death of his mother. He would take care of everyone. He would clean up the mess his father unwittingly left behind in his state of grief. But now, he wasn't so sure he could do it. This time it felt like he had lost so much more than a mother. This time, he'd lost someone he had sworn to look after for the rest of his life. He's failed someone who'd always looked up to him to makes things right. This time, he'd lost his baby brother.

They'd searched everywhere. The earthquake had hit a small country town called Mitchellton in Indiana USA. The town hadn't seen anything like it since 1909. Buildings were reduced to mounds of rubble, telephone and electricity lines had fallen, fires had erupted; the whole area had been a disaster zone. The Thunderbirds had worked for nearly twenty four hours to rescue the trapped and evacuate the wounded. Much time had been lost removing dangling electrical cables and clearing debris. They'd worked systematically, starting with the school. Mercifully, the hospital had not been affected enough to render it incapable of operation. It was a new building and, like the town hall and fire station, stood up to the tremors much better than the older buildings did. It had been strenuous, but all of the townspeople had been remarkably determined to help despite their losses.

But things had started to go wrong when a second tremor had unexpectedly hit. It hadn't even shown up on John's sensors in time to give them an opportunity to prepare. Alan and Gordon had been helping survivors out of a crumbling community centre. The whole building had come down. Gordon had been helping a woman out of the door as the tremor hit and was able to use the doorframe to save himself and his victim. Alan had not been so lucky. Immediately the brothers had dove into the task of rescuing the one of their own. Even the rescue volunteers had searched for hours for the youngest Thunderbird. But the rubble had been so deep. They'd uncovered three bodies, but there had been no Alan. It was as if they had been searching for a ghost. For a moment they'd felt a rush of hope; perhaps Alan had escaped just in time. But all attempts to contact or find Alan had failed.

It was impossible; how could Alan have disappeared into thin air? The question had plagued them throughout the days they had spent searching for their little brother.

By the end, the boys had been exhausted, mentally, emotionally and physically. But they had been determined to carry on. Even John had spent every day and every night utilizing every resource he had in his beloved space station to try and locate Alan. On the ground, each brother had been willing to move rubble with his bleeding hands for the rest of their lives if it meant bringing Alan home. But as time passed, hope faded.

Jeff had called off the search party.

Immediately he had been assaulted by protests. Scott and his brothers hadn't believed it at first; surely it had been a sick joke. Jeff Tracy never gave up. It was the motto of International Rescue and the rationale behind which Jeff had raised a corporate empire. Jeff had called off the search for his own son, despite finding no body. Why? It was question that stung the tip of Scott's tongue.

Scott had flown home at breakneck speed, hoping to talk some sense into his father. But within minutes of arriving home, he understood. On the rescue scene, he'd pushed away all feelings of despair, clinging to hope and the memory of Alan to drive him on through a state beyond exhaustion. They all had. But walking into the office and seeing his father broken…suddenly all the feelings he thought he'd crushed rose up from within him. He fought to cling to rationalism. If they gave up now, they were betraying Alan. Surely they hadn't looked hard enough. Surely they could have moved more debris with their bleeding hands. Surely someone in the community centre could have survived.

Each hopeful thought slipped through his fingers like sand through a sieve. Finally, Scott broke; for the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do.

Tears ran down his cheeks as he held his father's hands. He looked up at his father, whose eyes were also brimming. "We failed him, Dad," his voice cracked. "We failed him!"

Jeff rose from his chair and came around the desk, pulling his eldest son into a firm hug. _This time I will be strong_, he vowed to himself. _This time I will not let my grief make me forget them. Lucy would want me to be strong. Oh, Lucy_.

The tears he had tried to stall burst their dams. He and Scott held each other, both supporting the other as the shock of what had happened came crashing down on them.

They didn't even pull apart when the lift swooshed open. A few moments later, a hand tugged Jeff's shoulder.

Jeff turned to look at Virgil's face. Behind the streaks of dirt lay exhaustion and anger. The anger was quickly replaced by shock and pain.

"You weren't allowed to start until we got back," Virgil's voice shook as the first tears started to make tracks down his face. Jeff wrapped an arm around Virgil's shoulders and pulled him into the hug. Jeff looked around for Gordon to find him standing stoically a few feet away, staring at the floor.

"Gordon," Jeff solemnly beckoned.

Gordon backed away, shaking his head. "He's not…" he stammered. "He's not gone."

Jeff walked to him, holding his son's shoulders to stop him from retreating.

Gordon pulled away. "No! It's not over! Dad…" his face was strained as he tried to hold back tears.

Jeff pulled him into a rough but supporting hug. "I know," he swallowed, though his heart was telling him something else. "We're going to try. If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to bring him home," he promised. "Either way."

OoOoO

The flat beeping told him he was in a hospital. He wasn't sure of how he knew that. But the connection was still there despite his inability to remember of a specific time he had learned it. And the antiseptic. The ever present, nauseating antiseptic.

_That's why I was in a bed._ He remembered foggily of the last time he awoke. This time wasn't much different. Everything still hurt. Something was still wedged between his teeth and stuck down his throat.

Alan blinked, bringing the world into focus. He was in a small room on a narrow bed. Everything was white. There were machines around his head, one of which was making a whooshing sound. Next to him was a woman. She was in her mid forties with blonde hair tied in a messy ponytail. Her head was resting on her arms, which were folded on the bed by his waist. She was asleep. She wore a white, wrap dress.

_The woman in white_, he remembered.

He tried to move his arm. He knew it would be unkind to wake her, but he didn't want to be alone. He had only to move his fingers when a pain shot up his arm and through his shoulder. His cry was muffled by the tube in his mouth, but the beeping from the monitor increased. It was enough to wake the woman. Her brandy eyes fluttered open and looked up at him, then widened when she saw he was awake.

He looked at her imploringly, hoping that she'd understand.

Sitting up, she reached above him and pressed something he couldn't see.

She gently stroked his forehead as she had done before. Her other hand carefully rubbed his hand. "Hey, sweetie," she softly cooed. He was calmer simply hearing her voice. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. You were in an accident, but you're going to be fine."

Alan was trying so hard to keep up with what she was saying. His head started to throb from such concentration.

_An accident? Why did I have an accident? Where am I? Who am I?_

"Sweetheart, shhh," the woman soothed, noticing his distress. She watched him intently as she stroked his cheek with her fingers. "It's okay."

His eyes flickered to the end of his bed, where woman with mousy hair and a man wearing a white coat had appeared.

The man smiled and walked to Alan's other side. "Look who's decided to join us in the land of the living."

Alan recognised the voice and the brown hair. Unlike the woman's, the man's eyes were a deep blue. The man continued to smile reassuringly. "We were waiting for you to wake up before we removed the tube. I'm going to take it out for you now, okay?"

Alan wanted to nod, but experience from his last attempt at moving advised him otherwise. The man flipped a switch and the whooshing machine fell silent. The mousy haired woman at the end of the bed handed him a thin white towel, which he laid under Alan's chin.

"Okay, son. When I say, I want you to take a deep breath and then blow it out," the man gently instructed, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

Alan looked up at the man to indicate that he'd understood.

The man unhooked the tube from the machine, then held the end sticking out of Alan's mouth. "Deep breath in," he encouraged.

Alan tentatively obeyed, tensing.

"And blow out." The man slowly pulled the tube.

The sensation was horrible and it caused Alan to immediately gag.

"Keep blowing, son. That's it," the man encouraged

Alan tried, but he doubted his efforts were not helping. Finally, the tube was out.

The man handed it to the mousy-haired woman and used the towel to wipe Alan's mouth. "Well done," he commended, removing his gloves and tossing them away.

Alan swallowed, then cringed at the rawness of his throat.

The man looked at him sympathetically. "Sorry, son. Nil by mouth, I'm afraid, so I can't give you water just yet." He unwound the stethoscope he was wearing around his neck and hooked it in his ears. "Can you get me some ice chips, Cindy?"

The mousy haired woman nodded and left.

The man held the end of the stethoscope on Alan's chest. "Deep breaths for me now."

Alan tried to obey, but the pain in his chest made his breath hitch halfway.

He tried once more when the man listened to his other lung, but again he failed.

"It's okay," the man assured. "The fact that you're still breathing is a miracle, so we'll just take it step by step."

"John," the woman in white softly reprimanded.

John looked up at her.

"He's been through enough. He doesn't need to hear that," she said.

John nodded and offered Alan an apologetic smile. "She's right. Where are my manners? I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Doctor John Fletcher."

"And I'm Mary," the woman added, kindly. "What's your name?"

The question brought back all of the fear and confusion. _Why aren't I able to answer a simple question like that?_

His eyes filled with tears as he carefully he shook his head.

"You don't want to tell us?" Mary asked, without accusation.

Knowing he couldn't answer that question without speaking, Alan opened his mouth. "I… can't," he rasped.

"What do mean you can't, son?" the doctor asked gently, perching on the bed.

Alan licked his dry lips nervously. He was trembling now, unable to speak. _What's wrong with me? Why can't I remember?_

John was observing him very carefully. "Can you remember anything?"

Alan carefully shook his head, then cringed as it throbbed in protest.

"It's okay," said John, standing up. "We'll try again later. I'm going to get you something for the pain."

As soon as John left, Alan closed his eyes. Everything was hurting now. It hurt to breathe. He couldn't even move without pain shooting through him. And as his despair grew, so did the pain. He opened his eyes when Mary's hand rested on his hand again. She was looking at him in a motherly way. "Don't worry," she said, gently. "Let's focus on getting you on your feet again first."

"What's wr…" Alan's dry throat prevented the words from escaping.

As if on cue, Cindy appeared holding a plastic cup. Mary took it from her, smiling her thanks. As Cindy left, Mary took an ice chip from the cup and popped it in Alan's mouth. As soon as he tasted the cold water, he wanted more. Three ice chips later, he was able to talk.

"What's wrong with me?"

Mary placed the cup on the table at the end of the bed and leaned forward in her chair, looking at Alan steadily. "You were in an accident," she started. "Just over a week ago, there was an earthquake in town. You were found by our volunteer rescue teams trapped under the ruins of the community centre. You were the only one in that building to be found alive. You were very badly hurt, sweetie. You had a very bad head injury, your right shoulder was dislocated, your left arm was covered in glass, and your right leg was broken. You also broke four ribs, and one of them punctured your lung. That's why you've been on the ventilator."

"You were very lucky," John added as he walked back into the room. He placed a small, plastic bowl down on the trolley at the end of the bed and pulled on another pair of gloves. "You've been asleep for six days. To be honest, we were worried you wouldn't wake up at all."

Alan frowned. _An earthquake. Why does that sound so familiar?_

John approached him. "I'm just going to take a look at you before I give you meds," he said gently, pulling a penlight out of his coat pocket and leaning over Alan.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he assured when Alan flinched. He flashed the light in Alan's eyes a couple of times. "Do you have a headache?"

"Yeah," Alan murmured.

John nodded. "That's going to linger for a few weeks. With the knocking your head took, I'm surprised it's still on your shoulders."

He moved down to Alan's left arm, which was securely bound in a thick white dressing. "These cuts have been healing well, but they were very deep, so it's only natural that they still hurt," he explained. "Your right shoulder was dislocated so we'll try to keep that immobile, okay?"

Alan nodded, noticing for the first time that his right arm was in a sling.

"I've explained the rest," Mary said.

John nodded, returning to the trolley and picking up a syringe filled with an amber liquid. Alan's stomach turned at the sight of it. John noticed his grimace and chuckled. "Don't worry, champ. It's going into your I.V, so you won't feel a thing."

John injected the substance into the port of the back of Alan's left hand, rubbing Alan's good shoulder when he was done. "Don't panic if you start feeling sleepy very soon. It's an effect of the drug."

"Don't worry, honey," said Mary, gently squeezing his right hand. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

Despite how much it hurt, Alan returned the squeeze.


	3. Forgotten

**Hi everyone, **

**My apologies for the rather late arrival of this chapter - illness forced me to postpone my posting. Hence I have posted two chapters this week to thank you for your patience - and all of your wonderful reviews! It was so lovely to receive such a warm welcome back and I am so glad that you liked the first chapter. **

**I must take a moment to prepare you that I am trying a new writing technique that uses character perspective to indicate the passing of time. Rather than rely on author's notes such as "Two days later...", I will use the characters to inform you if any time has passed. I hope this will not be too confusing and will rely on your feedback as to whether or not I have succeeded in this particular challenge I have set myself. **

**So read on and enjoy! I look forward to your next reviews!**

**Boann xxx**

**C****hapter 2**

It didn't take long for the boy to fall asleep, but his grip on Mary's hand did not loosen.

_He's so helpless_, Mary thought sadly.

She'd spend a long time at his bedside. He'd been found just before dawn a day after the Thunderbirds had left. The rescue volunteers had begun digging out the bodies of the dead. They found the boy sprawled out under the remains of a table in the ruins of the community centre, broken and bleeding. He'd been wearing some sort of uniform, which had been torn to shreds. Maybe he'd been one of the maintenance crew. Initially, they believed him to be dead, but the careful observations of one man had revealed that he was, in fact, alive. He'd been rushed to the hospital and spent nearly fourteen hours in surgery. His injuries were so severe, and the punctured lung and internal bleeding especially complicated things. They'd lost his pulse three times, but he'd kept fighting. Doctors had said that the table, which he'd no doubt dived under when the quake hit, had certainly saved his life.

The strangest thing was that nobody could identify him. The hospital had taken his fingerprints and blood samples, but found no match in the medical records. It was like the boy had appeared out of nowhere. It had taken only two days for the word to spread around town. Now Mitchellton was buzzing with gossip about the mysterious miracle boy. So many people had lost loved ones and friends. The boy had given them hope and inspired them to fight just as hard as he was.

Mary had been helping out at the hospital when he'd been brought in. From the moment she saw him, her heart had nearly broken. He'd looked so young and vulnerable, and he'd been so alone. She'd remained by his side ever since.

She regarded the sleeping boy sympathetically before turning to her husband.

"Do you think he's going to be okay?"

John sighed, placing his hands on his hips. "I don't know," he admitted. "He's got a long road ahead of him, and that's not considering the risk of complications. His leg should heal fine. He's breathing on his own now, which says great things about his lungs. I'm keeping an eye on the lacerations in his arm. We've got him on antibiotics so hopefully that will cover the risk of infection."

"And the memory loss?" Mary inquired.

"It's a common result of a head injury," John reassured her. "It should come back to him in time. Right now we have to focus on his recovery."

Mary nodded and went back to watching the boy.

John sighed again and put a hand on his wife's shoulder. "You should go home and get some sleep."

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"Mary, you haven't left this hospital in days. You can't watch the boy all the time," John said.

"Rupert Thomson's taking care of the ranch. It'll be fine for a few more days," Mary argued softly.

She looked up at her husband. "He needs me, John. He's all alone and scared, and we can't ask him to go through this without support."

"He has support," John pointed out. "And he's being taken care of. Right now, you need to take care of yourself."

"I will," she smiled.

John was about to insist when his pager went off. "Think about it," he told her, planting a kiss on her forehead before he left.

Mary smiled fondly. John was tired. And when John was tired, he worried. Although the rest of the town was steadily getting back on track, the hospital was still overflowing with wounded victims of the quake.

Mary wasn't the only one who hadn't left the hospital in days. Many of the staff were still working overtime and some relatives and friends of victims refused to leave.

_At least the others who were hurt have relatives and friends_, Mary mused, stroking the boy's hand with her thumb. _He can't be older than sixteen. I wonder if his parents are wondering where he is._

OoOoO

_Two weeks today._

Gordon sat on the edge of the pool, dangling his feet in the water. This was as close as he'd come to the pool in nearly a week. For the first few days after Alan's disappearance, Gordon had slaughtered himself in the water, desperately seeking peace through the hundreds of laps he swam. Back and forth. Back and forth. But after three days, the pain had still not gone away. He'd given up trying. He'd turned to using avoidance to prevent himself from feeling.

His father had let his boys tend to their grief in their own personal ways. At night he would visit each of them to talk. Gordon never talked, and he doubt his other brothers had either. Even John, who'd been brought down from Thunderbird 5 within hours of hearing the news, had become a recluse. Gordon had only seen him once since he'd arrived home. Now it had been two weeks since the day Alan had gone missing.

Gordon looked out towards the horizon. The rising sun offered no hope or comfort. It was simply another day. It was another day without his partner in crime. It was another day without his confidant. It was another day he'd habitually go to Alan's room in search of his brother, before stopping halfway down the hall and remembering. He didn't cry anymore. He'd run out of tears. Crying didn't solve anything anyway. It wouldn't bring his brother back.

Then the voice had appeared. A small voice in his head that constantly reminded him of his own pitiful predicament. _You're in pain. You don't want to face another day. You miss your brother. Your back hurts_. The voice had become so persistent, he'd waved it off as a normal side effect of grief and accepted it.

"Gordon."

Gordon looked up, surprised at being disturbed.

Scott stood beside him, his face a mirror image of Gordon's stoic one. Scott's voice was strained, as if he'd been screaming for so long that he'd lost it.

_So that's what I heard last night_, Gordon mused.

"Dad wants you in his office," Scott stated emotionlessly before heading back inside the house.

Gordon didn't respond at first. He had been holding a lot of bitterness towards the rest of his family. It wasn't that he blamed them; it just seemed like he was the only one who cared that something didn't seem right. Although his father had constantly monitored the area for any sign of Alan, nothing was happening. His brothers, it seemed, had given up hope already. They'd each retreat to their rooms and emerge looking like zombies. Virgil wasn't playing the piano. Scott wasn't running. John wasn't up all night star gazing. It was just too weird. Even the Kyranos and Hackenbackers had become reclusive. It seemed like they were all convinced that it was end, that Alan was never coming back.

Sighing, Gordon got up and obediently walked to Jeff's office. He was surprised to see Scott, Virgil, John, the Kyranos and the Hackenbackers there too. Everyone wore the same exhausted expression.

"What's going on?" Gordon asked as he perched on the arm of the couch on which John sat.

Jeff stood in front of the windows, his arms folded. His eyes were glassy, there was a permanent crease in his brow, and his voice was scratchy, but he addressed all of them firmly. "I've brought you all here to talk about an important matter," he started. "As you know, we've been very lucky since Indiana. We've had no rescue calls. But that's going to change. Sooner or later, someone somewhere is going to call International Rescue for help."

Gordon saw a few worried glances being exchanged. They all felt the same. How could they help someone now? What if it cost them someone else this time?

Jeff watched all of them intently. "We must decide," he said. "We must decide whether or not to refuse that call. Permanently."

Gordon's head shot up at that last word. "What?"

His father looked at him. "I am prepared to officially relieve you of your duties, disband the Thunderbirds and shut down International Rescue."

Gordon looked around disbelievingly when nobody objected. "No!" He stood up. All eyes went to him. "We can't do that. We can't just abandon people like that!"

"Gordon," Virgil softly interrupted. "We have to think about this."

Gordon looked around. "You're not seriously considering this, are you?"

Nobody responded, but their eyes all exuded the same regret and opinion.

"I can't believe this," Gordon murmured, shaking his head. He looked imploringly at his father. "You're giving up? After everything you've ever taught us, after everything you've made us believe, you're telling us that it was worthless? Whatever happened to not giving up at any cost?"

"Gordon, if I could change what happened, I would." Jeff croaked. "I would give everything I have to change it. But we need to think about what must happen now."

Gordon scoffed. "You're just scared, Dad. You're scared of what might happen if we go out again."

"Aren't you?" Scott asked from where he was leaning against the wall by the door. "What if we lose someone else? Haven't we given enough? Haven't we sacrificed enough for other people?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Gordon saw Tintin look away to hide her tears.

Gordon felt a familiar tugging sensation at the back of his throat but he forbade the tears from coming. "If we give up, it all would have been for nothing!"

Virgil sighed wearily. "I can't do this anymore, Gords. After what happened, maybe it's best if we shut down."

"Best?" Gordon repeated, looking from Virgil to Jeff. "You mean what's best for _you_. If anything, this should inspire us to keep going. Do we want people to suffer like we are?"

"It's not like that, Gordon," Jeff gently said. "If we are not able to function as a result of what has happened, we need to make that decision."

Gordon looked around at everyone's dismal faces. "John?" he asked hopefully.

John looked up. He had been staring at the floor for most of the time. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gords. I can't be up in space. I need to be here with my family. I can't do that while International Rescue is operational."

Fermat nodded. "I wanted to be a Th…Th…a part of the team because of Alan. We were going to go on an adventure together. I c…c…it would be wrong to go on the adventure without him."

Gordon gritted his teeth, his eyes watering. Nobody spoke. "Fine," he finally said.

Jeff sighed. "That settles it, then. As of now, the Thunderbirds are officially disbanded."

Gordon wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. Instead he remained steely and silent. The Kyranos and Hackenbackers left silently. Gordon went to follow them.

"Gordon, wait," said Jeff. "I need to talk to you boys."

Gordon turned, fuming. "About what? Alan?" he scoffed. "There's nothing to talk about, Dad. You've all made it perfectly clear that you've forgotten him. Instead of honouring him you're sweeping the dirt under the rug and avoiding anything that will remind you of him."

"That's not true, Gordon," Scott argued. "Dad's only trying to look out for us."

"Bullshit!" Gordon snapped.

"That's enough!" Jeff raised his voice. "Gordon, I don't have time for this. The decision has been made."

"Yeah, you sure honoured Alan's last wishes, didn't you?" Gordon sneered.

His father didn't respond to the jibe. He remained solemn. "We need to start making arrangements for the funeral."

Gordon practically exploded. "What?"

Jeff closed his eyes. "Gordon, please."

"No!" yelled Gordon. The tears he had kept at bay were now running down his face. "You're giving up on him? He could still be alive, Dad! We haven't even-"  
>"Gordon, we've tried," Jeff argued. "I've looked everywhere, used all my military, government, and media resources. I haven't found anyone matching Alan's description at hospitals and orphanages in the area. Hell, I even conducted a worldwide search!" said Jeff.<p>

"I've been reading the transcripts too, Dad," Gordon said. "The Recovery Team Leader at Mitchellton told you that he didn't find any body matching Alan's description in the ruins of the community centre or anywhere else in the town. They've cleared all the debris so there's no chance they've missed anything, but they still haven't found him. If there's no body, he's not dead! He couldn't have just vanished into thin air!"

"What would you have me do?" Jeff yelled, startling them all. His blue eyes glared at Gordon.

"Well obviously something's not right," Gordon argued. "And I'd start looking in Mitchellton."

"I will decide what action to take!" Jeff shouted. "I do not need your foolish delusions making this any harder!"

Gordon felt like he'd been slapped. He hadn't been imagining it. His family really had resigned to the worst possible scenario.

"Maybe he's right, Gordon," John gently imputed. "Maybe it's time to put this to rest."

Gordon's forced smile was more like a grimace. "Sure, guys," he nodded. "If that's what you want. But I'm not giving up. If you want to stay here and feel sorry for yourself and let other people suffer for it, that's fine with me. I'm sure that, wherever he is, Alan's very proud of you all."

He stormed out as tears fell down his cheeks.


	4. Burned

**Chapter 3**

The fire had once again ignited and it was burning with a new ferocity. But something was different. It wasn't the agonising pain it had once been. This time it was just hot.

_Am I melting_? Alan wondered worriedly.

His head throbbed and his left arm burned. Everything was hazy and it was hard to breathe. He was so hot. He heard something move to his right. Hoping to see Mary there, he pulled his eyes open a crack. Whoever it was, it wasn't Mary. Alan couldn't make out a face. He tried to shake his head to rid himself of the fog that clouded his head and inhibited his thoughts.

"Son, can you hear me?"

_John?_ Alan knew that voice. A cold hand rested on his shoulder. Alan wanted to grab that hand, to grasp something that was real. But every time he tried to move his free arm, a white hot poker would be held to it.

Another hand rested on his hand to stop the movement. "Take it easy, champ," John encouraged. Alan spun his wrist around and grabbed the hand that was over his. John bent over him. The cold hand on his shoulder moved to rest on his forehead. Alan nuzzled the heavenly touch. He was slipping again, he knew it. The fog was thickening and John's voice was becoming lost.

"Hang in there," the doctor said.

"_Yes, Alan. Hang in there."_

Alan jumped at the new voice. It took him a second to realise that the new voice wasn't coming from inside the room, rather inside his head.

"_This isn't part of the plan, Alan,"_ the voice warned. Its tone was casual, but beneath the surface, it was venomous. _"Honestly, Alan. I thought you were stronger than this."_

_Alan? Why is he calling me Alan? Who knows my name?_

For a moment the fog surrounding his mind began to clear, as if something was coming towards him. But as soon as the voice spoke again, the cloud was back.

"_Don't remember. It's too hard,"_ the voice encouraged_. "Just sleep."_

Something was pressing down on his head, sending him further into darkness. Although the voice disappeared, Alan swore he could see a pair of red eyes before sinking into oblivion.

OoOoO

John watched helplessly as the boy lost consciousness again. _Shit_, he silently cursed.

"Get me more icepacks and 400 mils of ibuprofen," he instructed the nurse, only glancing up high enough to read the name badge pinned to her blouse. By the time he looked back down at the boy, John had already forgotten the name that had been written on it.

John pulled out his penlight and inspected the boy's pupils. "Cindy, how are his obs?"

"Heart rate's still up, BP 150 over 90 and rising. His temperature has reached 104.3," Cindy reported.

"Keep a close eye on that temp and tell me if it rises," John told her sternly.

_Come on, son_, John silently implored.

The boy's condition had improved considerably over the last four days. His lungs were sounding good, his leg was healing nicely, and the MRI scans were showing a decrease in the swelling in his head and shoulder. But in the last 24 hours, things had taken a turn for the worse. As John had feared, the deep lacerations on the boy's arm had become infected and a raging fever had ensued. John was only glad that he had convinced Mary to return home for the night. He'd hate to let her see the boy deteriorate like this. Despite John's best effort, the fever was still rising to dangerous levels. Given the weakened state of his body, the boy would be lucky to last the night.

"Temp now 104.7," Cindy reported.

John had learned over the years that in this job, he couldn't punish himself for the death of a patient. _You can't save everyone_, he'd tell himself. But this time was different. He couldn't understand it, but this boy had touched him somehow. Despite the fact that he wouldn't admit it, he understood how his wife felt. There was more to the kid that met the eye, and he was determined not to lose him.

The nurse returned with the items he'd requested. Whilst she applied the icepacks under the boy's armpits and around his neck, John uncapped the pre-filled syringe and injected it into his patient's I.V port. He looked at the boy's face, waiting for any sign of a reaction.

"How's his stats?" he asked Cindy without looking up.

"Temp at 104.6, but it's holding. BP no longer rising," she said, relieved.

John didn't dare tempt fate and share her relief. "Maintain obs and put him on oxygen. I'll be back an hour to check on him. If he worsens again, page me."

Only when he left the room did John let out a huge sigh.

OoOoO

"Gordon?"

Gordon bit his tongue to stop him from snapping. Tintin's voice was too pure and sweet to anger him, but her presence was unwanted.

He sat on his bed, staring at the wall on the other side of the room. He'd given up trying the read the magazine that now lay on the floor. The soft glow of his bedside lamp sent shadows stretching across the entire room. It resembled his mood.

Tintin approached and cautiously sat on the end of the bed. "You weren't at dinner," she said softly.

"I wasn't in very sociable mood, honey," Gordon stonily replied.

Tintin nodded and looked away, looking embarrassed. She stood up to leave when Gordon held out a hand.

"No Tintin, don't go. I'm sorry," he sighed.

Tintin offered him a small smile. "It's okay. It's only natural for you to be upset after what happened."

Gordon frowned. "What happened? Tintin, I'm upset at what's happening right now. It's been nearly three weeks since Alan went missing and we still haven't found him. My dad would be out there scouring the world to find him, but he's not. My dad wouldn't rest until he brought Alan home one way or another, he said it himself! And now, suddenly, he's willing to give up and just assume that Alan is dead."

"Gordon," Tintin's eyes welled up as she sat on the bed next to him. "It's impossible that he could have survived that. I was there too. I saw the ruins of the community centre. The rescue leader at Mitchellton said that nobody could have survived that and he was right."

"But there are so many unanswered questions," Gordon argued. "Why isn't there a body? Why has everyone given up so fast? It's not natural. You know our family. We never give up! So why are Dad and the guys so easily resigning to the worst?"

Tintin frowned. "I don't know," she murmured. "But I can feel it too. Gordon, I'm so sorry, but Alan's gone. It just makes sense!"

"How?" Gordon asked her hotly.

Through her tears, Tintin looked surprised. "I don't know," she replied.

Gordon sighed. His gaze drooped to the pendant that hung from the cord around Tintin's neck. It was a piece of quartz that she'd worn for as long as he could remember. As it swung with the movement of Tintin's sobs, it caught the lamplight, throwing shards of rainbow across Gordons knees. Back and forth. Back and forth.

It was so simply beautiful, almost hypnotic. For weeks Gordon had felt empty but, quite suddenly, he didn't know why. Pulling his gaze away from the quartz crystal, Gordon went to continue with the conversation, then frowned. "What were we talking about?" he softly asked.

Tintin's eyes welled up again and her face contorted in pain. "Alan."

Then it hit him; an overwhelming flood of emotion. Tintin's pain was enough to make him face reality. _Oh my God_, Gordon thought. _How could I have been so stupid? Here I am being stubborn and thinking about myself when Alan's dead! He has to be dead! He would have contacted us by now if he was okay. Dad would have found him by now._

A choked sob escaped him. Tintin put a hand on his arm, but he bolted out of the room, running through the hall to his father's office.

"Dad!"

His father looked up from where he sat at his desk. "Gordon? Are you okay?"

Gordon shook his head slowly. "Dad," he said, approaching his father. "I'm so sorry."

"Son," Jeff rose and enveloped the redhead in a hug. "It's okay."

Gordon gripped his father as he sobbed. "He's really gone! Dad, I want him back!"

Jeff stroked the back of Gordon's head. "I understand," he murmured, voice hitching. "You were closer to him than all of us combined. I should have known that it would be hardest on you. It's only natural you would've denied it."

Gordon nodded into his father's shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

His father's shudder revealed that he too was crying.


	5. Alone

**Hello again everyone!**

**I was thrilled at the response I got from the last couple of chapters - thank you so much for your support! I am glad you're enjoying the story so far. More than anything I received a lot of questions - what's going to happen? how can the Tracys have abandoned Alan? how can Alan have simply disappeared? how are the puzzle pieces going to be joined?**

**Unfortunately, I have no answers for you right now- instead this is going to be one of those VERY annoying stories that doesn't reveal all of the missing pieces until the very end! Rest assured all the loose ends and mysteries will be solved - you're just going have to read more to find out how!**

**Boann xx**

**Chapter 4**

Something was on his face and he wanted it gone.

"No, champ," was the response he got to his attempt at dislodging it.

"John?" he rasped. His throat was drier than sandpaper. Something was blocking one of his nostrils and something was lodged at the back of his throat.

He moved his head, and whatever was causing the blockage moved. "Urgh!" he nearly gagged.

"Easy, tiger. It's just a tube to feed you," John said.

"What?" Alan tried to ask.

John removed the object off his face (which turned out to be an oxygen mask) and brought a straw to his lips. "Slowly," he said as Alan gratefully drank.

He pulled the straw away after a few seconds. "How do you feel?' he asked.

Alan was focused on something more important. "Where's Mary?"

"She's gone to get some coffee. She'll be back soon," John explained calmly.

Alan cringed as he swallowed. He fumbled with his right hand, which was now free of the sling, to push away the blanket at his waist. "It's hot," he told John.

"Take it easy," John soothed, pulling the blanket down to Alan's knees. "If you stress yourself, the fever might spike again."

Alan frowned. "Fever?"

"Yes," said John, sitting on the bed next to him. "The wounds on your arm became infected and your temperature spiked to nearly 105 degrees. We've spent the last week pumping you with antibiotics and trying to bring you round. I think Mary's grown a few grey hairs thanks to you."

Alan cringed and raised his hand to feel the feeding tube, which was taped across his face. John gently pulled his hand away. "No touching," he said. "We had to insert the tube to keep you nourished. Like me, it's annoying, but it's just doing its job."

The corners of Alan's mouth lifted of their own accord.

John feigned a look of shock. "Was that a smile?"

Alan couldn't help but bashfully let his smile grow.

John patted him on the thigh. "Don't worry, kiddo. Everything will be alright," he smiled.

They both looked up when Mary walked in with an ecstatic look on her face.

"Oh my God!" she cried, setting her coffee down on the table at the end of the bed and rushing over to him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders in the gentlest of hugs.

"You never stop fighting, do you?" she smiled, pulling away.

Alan offered her a smile, but it was a saddened one. Mary's hug had, rather than comforted him, made him realise that he couldn't remember being hugged by anyone. _Do I have family? Why aren't they here? Are they dead?_

He was brought back to Earth by John, who'd gotten up and was rolling down the blanket to inspect Alan's calves. Alan looked down and wrinkled his nose at the sight of the ugly cast covering his broken leg. His reaction made John chuckle.

The doctor grabbed Alan's toes, which were sticking out of the end of the cast, firmly. "Can you feel that?" he asked.

"Yeah," Alan replied, a little surprised.

John smiled. "No sign of nerve damage. That's good. I'll get one of the nurses to replace the cast now that you're awake."

He approached the side of the bed again, pulling his stethoscope off his neck and placing the silver disc under Alan's gown. "Take a breath as far as you can manage without it hurting," he instructed.

Alan to a small breath, surprised and relieved to find that it didn't hurt. He breathed deeper, but his overconfidence was rewarded by pain shooting through his chest. He grunted and stiffened.

"Hey, champ. What did I say about taking it easy?" John lightly reprimanded, replacing the instrument around his collar.

"How long will it take?" asked Alan glumly.

"Your broken bones will take a few more weeks to heal, if you get proper rest. When we start physiotherapy, we'll get a clearer picture of how the rest of your injuries are doing."

"When will I start physio?" Alan asked.

"I want to start work on that shoulder as soon as possible," John replied.

Alan looked up hopefully. "Like now?"

John chuckled. "We'll see how you're doing. It's no race to the finish line, champ."

"And we'll be here to help you," Mary assured, holding his right hand. "You don't need to worry about a thing."

John perched himself of the side of the bed again, looking at Alan thoughtfully. "I know it's difficult to deal with right now," he said gently. "But do you remember anything?"

Alan swallowed nervously.

Mary leaned towards him compassionately. "It's okay if you don't, sweetie."

Alan looked up at John, suspiciously. "Why do you ask?"

"During the worst of the fever, you were a bit delirious," John told him.

"What did I say?" Alan asked, nervously.

John shook his head. "Nothing coherent, except a name."

"What name?" Alan was almost on the verge of tears, longing for an identity.

Mary stroked his hand with one thumb. "You kept saying 'Alan'," she said. "Does that name sound familiar?"

Alan couldn't remember the name, but he could remember where he'd heard it. The voice who had spoken to him when he was sick had called him Alan. _Is that my name? Or was I just delirious?_

Sadly, he shook his head. "No," he honestly replied.

The two adults exchanged a disappointed glance. Alan, feeling responsible for their frustration, felt his eyes fill with tears. His shuddering breath must have alerted them to his distress.

"Sweetie, it's okay," Mary stroked his forehead.

"I'm sorry," Alan whimpered, a tear falling out of the corner of his eye.

John put a hand on his good shoulder. "Listen to me, champ. This is not your fault. Everything will come back in time. And in the meantime, you can count on us, okay?"

Alan sniffed and nodded. He winced when his head throbbed.

John's brown creased slightly. "Still got that headache?" he asked sympathetically.

Alan didn't want to nod again and didn't trust his voice.

John understood. "I'll go and get you something for that."

After John had left, Mary rubbed Alan's arm. "Hey," she murmured. "You know, until we find out what your real name is, maybe we should call you Alan."

Alan considered it. It seemed kind of wrong to assume the name if there was a possibility it was not his. But the alternative was far worse. He could not stand being nameless. It only reminded him of his lack of identity. "Okay," he murmured.

Mary smiled at him encouragingly.

John walked back in, holding a syringe.

Alan almost groaned. "Can't have a Tylenol?" he asked hopefully.

John laughed. "Not until your tube comes out. What do you have against needles anyway?"

Alan grimaced in reply as John injected the drug into the I.V. port. "When can the tube come out?"

"Well, if you're feeling up to it, I'll remove it tomorrow and we'll see how you go with some soup. Your stomach isn't used to solid food at the moment, so we're taking it slowly, sport" John said, making a note of Alan's chart.

"I'm sure _Alan_ will be fine," Mary emphasised the name.

"Alan?" John raised his eyebrows and inclined his head. "It works," he concluded.

Mary and Alan shared a smile.

"Right then, Alan," John said. "Rest up. I'll be back this afternoon to assess you for physio."

Alan nodded, yawning as John left.

Mary chuckled. "Come on, you," she crooned affectionately. She pulled the rumpled blanket up to his waist. "I reckon we can squeeze in a nap before he comes back."

"Yes, mum," Alan groaned without thinking.

His smile fell when she stopped. The look she gave him was strange; a mixture of dread and hurt. Alan was about to apologise but she cut him off. "I'm going to go for walk. I'll be back later."

Before Alan could speak, she hurried out of the room.

OoOoO

A little while later, a new nurse came and gave Alan a sponge bath. By the time she'd finished and gone, Mary still hadn't come back. Alan spent the next few hours staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he had done wrong.

_I obviously hurt her. Why did I have to be so stupid? I never asked if she had kids. What if she lost them in the earthquake?_

Alan let the tears fall a few times. He couldn't help it. He felt ashamed and horrible. But worst of all, he felt lonely. If Mary and John gave up on him, he'd have nobody.

_What if Mary tells John that I was horrible? What if he gets angry? What if-_

"Alan?"

Alan lurched at the hand on his arm. John stood above him. The doctor frowned concernedly and put another hand gently on his waist. "Hey! It's okay. What's wrong?"

Alan swallowed, hoping his eyes weren't too red. He shook his head.

John's frown didn't smoothen. "I'm just going to raise the head of the bed a bit, alright? If you start feeling dizzy or nauseous just let me know."

Alan nodded as the head of the bed slowly bent forwards, sitting him up. The change in position sent the blood rushing from his head. He closed his eyes and sucked air in through his nose.

"You okay?" he heard John ask warily.

Alan nodded, keeping his eyes closed until the bed stopped moving. John stopped it at a forty-five degree angle.

The older man gently touched Alan's right shoulder. "Can you sit up by yourself?" he gently inquired.

Slowly, Alan managed to push himself upright. John's arms wrapped around him when he wobbled. "Whoa, kiddo! Take it slow."

Alan swallowed against the nausea attacking his stomach. His confidence was suddenly very low. _I can't even sit up by myself. How am I going to do physio? How am I going to learn to walk again? How-_

"Alan?"

He looked up to see John eyeing him warily. "That's the second time you've spaced out me, champ."

Alan looked down. "Sorry."

John nodded, looking a little unconvinced. Nevertheless he smiled. "Let's get started then, shall we? We're not diving head first into this just yet, but it will give me an idea of what needs to be done when you're a bit stronger. We're going to take it really slow, okay?"

He started to drill Alan in a range of exercises. He would have Alan squeeze stress balls, slowly lift his arm in different directions, and even challenged him to an arm wrestle. Naturally, John didn't try very hard. He encouraged Alan to push his arm over whilst he applied a small amount of resistance. It only lasted about fifteen minutes but after it was finished, Alan was exhausted and frustrated. He struggled with every task and when it was over, his morale had been completely shattered. He tried to hide his frustration from John.

Finally John ended the session and let Alan sink back against the raised bed head. "You did really well," he reassured kindly.

Alan was miserably quiet.

John pulled out his stethoscope and held the end to Alan's chest. "So do you want to tell me what's bothering you?" he asked cheerfully.

_Oh God! _Alan winced. _If I tell him I hurt Mary, he'll be really upset! I don't want him to be angry with me! I don't want to be left alone!_

John discarded the stethoscope and gripped his shoulders, looking into his eyes. "Alan, talk to me. You're trembling. What is it?"

Alan shook his head. "Nothing," he mumbled, feeling tears approaching.

John was still frowning. He grabbed his penlight and shone it in Alan's eyes. "Do you feel sick or are you finding it hard to concentrate?" he asked.

Alan did his best to avoid the light. "No," he lied.

John withdrew the light. "You've spaced out on me three times now. Something's wrong."

Alan's eyes welled up again and he shook his head, distrusting his own voice to reply without cracking.

John sat himself on the side of the bed with a calm sigh. "Alan, I want to help you," he said gently. "But I can't do that if I don't know what's wrong. The next couple of months are going to be very hard for you. Don't make them harder by shutting people out."

"It's my fault," Alan blurted.

"What is?" John questioned softly.

"I hurt Mary's feelings. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to say it. It just came out! I didn't even think-"

"Alan, calm down," John said sternly, silencing Alan's rambling. "Take a deep breath and start again."

Alan breathed as far as he could without experiencing discomfort. "I called Mary 'mum'," he said. "We were joking and I didn't even think. It just sort of came out and she looked really hurt. Then she said she had to go and she hasn't come back for hours. I'm really sorry!"

John nodded, then looked at Alan seriously. "Alan," he said. "This is not your fault. You're a good boy and I don't believe you would willingly hurt anyone."

"But I did!" Alan protested, tears running down his cheeks.

John held up a hand. "Understand this, Alan. Mary has been through a lot these past few years. It's only natural that what you said would affect her."

"Why?" Alan asked.

John cringed and sighed. "Two years ago, Mary and I lost a child."

"You're married?" Alan realised. "I'm sorry, I had no idea!"

John hushed him. "It's been really hard for both of us. Sam was only thirteen."

Alan couldn't believe it. "I'm so sorry."

John nodded solemnly. "You weren't to know. I'll go and find Mary. Everything will be okay."

"Can you tell her I'm sorry?" Alan asked.

"That's not necessary, but I will," John smiled kindly. "In the meantime, get some sleep." He grabbed a small button attached to a cable which was hanging off the wall. "If you need anything, just press this button."

Alan nodded.

Placing the button on the bed within Alan's reach, John raised his eyebrows. "You sure you're feeling okay?"

Alan thought miserably. "I could murder a cheeseburger."

John laughed. "Maybe later, champ."


End file.
